


Between the Devil and the Cosmic Sea

by EatYourSparkOut



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Clothing Kink, Dirty Talk, Dominance kink, Fingering, Fondling, Kidnapping, M/M, Manhandling, Mirror Sex, Size Difference, Spark Sexual Interfacing, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, authority kink, light humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-08 07:13:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14689121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatYourSparkOut/pseuds/EatYourSparkOut
Summary: This is definitely shaping up to one of Hot Rod's better morning-afters.Did someone say Pirate AU?





	Between the Devil and the Cosmic Sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ros3bud009](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ros3bud009/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Whose Sail Do You Fly Under?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103053) by [ros3bud009](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ros3bud009/pseuds/ros3bud009). 



> Rosey is out here indulging me with such wonderful content, and thus, I have fulfilled my moral duty by writing a morning-after fic ;P
> 
> Ft. Magnus as the unattainable crush and Deadlock as the bad boy who sweeps Hot Rod off his feet~

Hot Rod stretched luxuriously, bathing in the warmth of the room. Silken sheets slipped against his plating, tickling his sensors, and there was a delicious ache radiating across his frame—which meant that whoever he’d been fragging not only had great taste, but had also shown him a _very_ good time. He could feel the rocking of an unfamiliar ship beneath him, the hull swaying gently in the jet stream.

He really hoped he wasn't late; Magnus would have him scrubbing the deck for deca-cycles if he was, and what a crappy end to shore leave _that_ would be.

Hot Rod’s fans stuttered as the thought really registered.

Oh frag, _shore leave_.

His processor had finished its defrag, and the memories were quickly tumbling in—eager to remind him _exactly_ what he’d gotten up to last night. They flashed by in a colorful montage of indulgence and revelry. Finding a bar with the rest of the crew. Having more than a little too much to drink. Stumbling—literally—into the lap of a _very_ handsome mech, more than a little dangerous and just his type.

He’d fragged _Deadlock_.

A small, self-satisfied smile tugged at Hot Rod’s derma as he mulled over that realization. He recalled how he’d mouthed off at Magnus, and found himself snickering under his breath. Oh, he’d _definitely_ be scrubbing the decks.

It’d been worth it though. _So_ worth it.

Hot Rod onlined his optics, and found himself disappointingly alone. It looked like Deadlock wasn’t one to hang around after a roll in the berth. Kind of expected, but also a fragging shame. He really could have gone for round… five?

Whatever. Who’d been keeping track?

To be fair, Deadlock was a captain, and he was probably busy trying to wrangle his mechs. Hot Rod could hear a commotion above decks—the unmistakable noise of a crew getting ready to shove off again.

He rolled over and groaned into the pillow in protest. That meant that he’d be getting kicked out soon, and while he wasn’t exactly _comfortable_ hanging out on a fully-crewed Decepticon ship, he also wasn’t looking forward to the chewing out he’d be getting back at his.

He lay there a while longer, but eventually restlessness took over. Grumbling, he pulled himself free of the covers and swung his legs over the edge of the berth. Almost immediately, he spied the ornate, full-length mirror sitting in the corner of the room.

 _Time to face the damage, I guess_.

Hot Rod knew it wouldn’t be pretty. He could _feel_ the evidence of last night all across his frame, and knew for a fact that he’d be walking out of here with more than a few marks.

Honestly, he couldn’t even be upset. He’d been into it. Even now, the memory of Deadlock’s claws and fangs against his plating made him shiver.

 _Aaand there it was_.

Anyone looking at the mech in the mirror would know immediately that he’d been thoroughly debauched. As far as Magnus was concerned, Hot Rod’s guilt was written all over his plating.

It’d been damn fun though.

Hot Rod couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. After all, how many mechs could say they’d held their own against Deadlock? And he really _had_ too. If there was one thing he was proud of, it was his ability to keep up in the berth, and he’d given just as good as he’d got.

Deadlock hadn’t seemed too bothered by his attitude either. He’d found it amusing, if anything—which was good, because if Hot Rod was being completely honest he’d always had a hard time turning that off. Deadlock had called it ‘cute’ in that mocking rasp of his, and while he wasn’t the biggest fan of that word—got enough of it as someone just on the cusp of minibot—he’d take it.

It was better than pissing off an infamous Decepticon, at any rate.

Hot Rod looked himself up and down again, cataloguing the damage. Superficial, but pit, there sure was a lot of it. Those claws didn’t mess around. Prominent fang marks decorated his faring, and he could still feel the bite on the edge of his spoiler—a throbbing reminder of the overload that’d accompanied it. _That_ one had been fun.

“Well, don’t you look smitten?” drawled a voice that had no business being so velvety.

Deadlock’s voice was smoke and honey, and it did all sorts of fun things to Hot Rod’s frame. Add the swaggering demeanor to the mix, and he had a hard time believing this mech hadn’t stepped out of a bad romance vid. Not that he was... complaining.

Hot Rod had managed to keep himself from jumping at the voice, but now he twirled around to find Deadlock watching him. He’d somehow entered unheard, and Hot Rod’s armor prickled a little at the realization that he’d been snuck up on.

There was more than a little satisfaction in Deadlock’s optics as he surveyed his handiwork, but Hot Rod had a hunch that pride wasn’t the only thing making them glow like that.

Maybe he’d be getting that round five after all.

Deadlock had already dressed, and a menagerie of fabrics and belts clinked as he stalked forward. He looked good. Scrap, he looked better than good. The loose-fitting cloth flared out and accentuated each of the powerful, sharp angles that made up his frame, and his jacket wasn’t even buttoned up—just held at the waist with a sash to show off his chestplates.

The outfit accentuated the fluidity of his walk, and it was tailored to turn heads—demanded that bots look, because _here_ was someone important.

When he’d first signed up with the Autobots, Hot Rod hadn’t really understood the appeal of clothing. It wasn’t a necessity for Cybertronians—who had no vulnerable parts to cover up, and no social stigma about exposed plating. But pirates lived for the drama, or in Magnus’ case, ‘the uniform’.

And looking at Deadlock, he thought that he was maybe starting to get it.

Deadlock stood there with cocked hip and crossed arms, and Hot Rod shifted awkwardly under his scrutiny. The heavy gaze lingered on the marks littering his faring, and he felt himself flush. Unsure what was expected of him, he scratched at the back of his helm and took a step away from the mirror.

“No. No, you stay right there,” drawled Deadlock. “You were obviously appreciatin' the view, and who’m I to stop you?” He began walking in Hot Rod’s direction. “In fact, I think I could go for a bit of that m’self...”

Hot Rod pulled a face, but he turned back to the mirror, and Deadlock laughed as he came up behind him. Their height difference was made all the more obvious in the reflection—his unimpressed faceplate staring back at them from just above Deadlock’s waist.

Hot Rod had long ago accepted his small stature. After all, it had its uses. Opponents tended to underestimate him in fights for one, and getting in and out of tight spots was a breeze. Right now, however, it left him feeling at a disadvantage.

It didn’t help that morning-afters were... weird, and this one weirder than most. Usually, they involved waking up to find that the bot had already gone, or was angling for another roll in the berth. This one, on the other hand, had involved way too much thinking already.

A little out of his element, he defaulted to the cheek expected of him.

“Is there some kind of Decepticon rule I don’t know about where you give you gotta carve up your partner to prove you had a good time?” he quipped.

Deadlock only leered harder, his glossa flicking out for a brief moment to wet his derma. That was familiar, at any rate. Hot Rod knew exactly what he looked like, and he really had no one to blame but himself. He was the one that’d let the damn ‘Con mark him up in the first place.

“Maybe it’s just you.”

Okay, well. That—he actually didn’t know what to do with that.

A servo slid around to splay against his midsection, and Hot Rod leaned back into the warmth of Deadlock’s frame as it traveled lower. Oh, pit yeah. This was good. He definitely wouldn’t say no to one for the road.

“Getting ready to head out?” he asked, distractedly.

Deadlock chuckled.

“Yeah. Thought about not wakin’ you—just sailin’ off with you in my berth,” he said lowly.

Hot Rod squinted.

“Fragger.”

He received a lopsided grin in return.

“Pirate,” Deadlock pointed out.

Hot Rod stilled as his processor coughed up another recharge-muddled file.

“Hey, wait. Didn’t Magnus come looking for me already?” he asked warily.

He tried not to let his apprehension show, but _that_ was a conversation he wasn’t looking forward to. He could prepare all his best excuses—had already begun justifying everything in his helm—but it probably wouldn’t matter in the end. Not where Magnus was concerned.

Reminded again that his fun was almost up—and that soon he’d be facing a stern reprimand—he was struck by a small pang of disappointment.

Granted, Magnus could be pretty slaggin’ hot when he got going, so it wouldn’t be a complete charge-killer, but any genuine disappointment directed at him would probably suck the fun out of seeing him worked up.

Magnus was too caught up in ‘ethics’ and proper procedure to ‘face him anyway. Last time he’d caught Hot Rod staring at his profile, he’d reprimanded him for loitering.

Thankfully, Deadlock had no such hangups. Here was an authority figure who’d frag Hot Rod to his spark’s content and make sure that he _felt_ it.

“I chased him off,” rumbled Deadlock, as he brushed teasingly against Hot Rod’s panel. “We’ve got some time.”

Hot Rod groaned in disappointment as the servo slid past his panel to grope his thigh.

 _Fragging tease_.

He looked down to watch as Deadlock rubbed appreciative circles into the inner paneling, and it stoked the embers in his midsection. Now if only those servos would move a little farther up…

Deadlock snapped his fingers in front of his face, startling him from his reverie.

“Hey, optics up,” he growled. Then he paused. “Actually...”

Hot Rod yelped as Deadlock sat down, dragging him along. He fell back—flailing—and threw out a servo to steady himself. After a small, undignified struggle, he found himself settled in the captain’s lap.

“Comfy?” asked Deadlock sardonically, obviously unimpressed by his floundering.

Hot Rod’s felt that his glare was answer enough.

“That attitude’s gonna get you in trouble one day,” Deadlock noted casually. He’d already resumed his exploration of Hot Rod’s thighs. “Lucky for you, I like a spitfire.”

“Yeah, well. I’m trying to _get_ lucky, and I don’t see it happening,” he retorted, crossing his arms and leaning back again.

Deadlock’s optics darkened even further, and suddenly Hot Rod wasn’t sure that amusement was the only thing lurking in their depths. His smile had taken on a slightly sharp edge.

Hot Rod gulped, feeling as though he might be eating his own words soon.

 _Stop pissing off the dangerous con, you idiot. Or he might eat **you**_.

He kept forgetting that Deadlock was... Deadlock. Which said a lot about the kind of night he’d had, honestly. But even in the short time they’d spent together he’d noticed that the Con’s mood could change on a whim. He was still _dangerous_.

And why didn’t that bother him as much as it should have?

“You want somethin’, brat?”

Hot Rod threw on one of his signature brave faces. Deadlock liked a spitfire, huh? Well, he could do that. Sometimes even he didn’t know where the bravadao ended and ‘fake it till you make it’ took over, but no one had ever been able to tell.

And he _was_ pretty hot.

Deadlock’s servos inched a little closer, his claws prodding at the sensitive wires which peeked out from between Hot Rod’s groin plating.

“Yeah,” he groaned, “so come on and give it to me already”.

“Demands?” asked Deadlock. His vents were hot against Hot Rod’s audial. “Thought after last night you mighta learned some manners.”

Hot Rod shivered as the servos tightened their grip.

“Manners, from a pirate? Maybe if you’re expecting us all to be clones of Magnus,” he snorted.

Deadlock’s smirk returned.

“I _expect_ you to address a captain with the respect he deserves,” he purred. “But I’ll settle for not repeatin’ myself, and a real answer.”

They were still playing it like that, huh?

“I’ve got more important things to do than humor a jumped-up cabin boy,” Deadlock added.

The words were harsh, but his gravelly voice betrayed his arousal, and Hot Rod wasn’t fooled. The heat was emanating off him in waves, and by now Deadlock’s field was so thick with lust that it was almost cloying.

Sick of waiting, Hot Rod slid his own servo down between his legs. One thing he’d never been was shy, and he wasted no time in popping his panels in order to apply pressure where he needed it.

“I want your _spike_ , captain,” he breathed, playing up his desire for dramatic effect. It was overdone—like something out of a porn vid—and Deadlock couldn’t possibly miss the teasing mockery he’d laced his words with. “Gonna give it to me?”

Deadlock snorted.

Hot Rod’s servo was batted away, and he loosed an indignant yelp. He didn’t complain though, as a larger, rougher servo took over the task of massaging his valve.

Deadlock’s efforts were largely undirected, sometimes catching his node, sometimes not.  
The unpredictability was frustrating—not really _enough_ —but Hot Rod’s restless shifting went ignored.

It was clear Deadlock wasn’t in a rush—content just to feel him up.

This was payback, wasn’t it?

In an attempt to distract himself from his growing impatience, Hot Rod’s optics shot to the mirror. The occasional wink of his anterior node as Deadlock worked him over gave him a small thrill, and as Deadlock grazed the nodes nestled just within the rim of his valve the simmering in his spark ratcheted a notch higher.

The sound he made was definitely not a whimper.

Deadlock finally took pity on him, thumbing at Hot Rod’s anterior node until his vents sputtered and he had to grab fistfuls of Deadlock’s coat to anchor himself. He bunched the fabric up beneath his servos and pressed his hips into the relentless petting, eager for more. Deadlock’s servo bumped infrequently against the underside of his spike, but it still wasn’t enough.

Not that he wasn’t _appreciating_ this—and any other time he might have even encouraged it—but drama aside, he’d meant it when he’d asked for Deadlock’s spike. They didn’t really have time to waste, and if Magnus came back to haul him away now he might actually offline.

“Could you—” he groaned, “—hurry it up, maybe?”

Deadlock bit at the side of his helm in retaliation, but the sharp sting did nothing to soften Hot Rod’s arousal. He really, _really_ liked those fangs.

“Don’t try and order me around, brat,” Deadlock growled, clearly caught between humor and irritation. “We’ll get there when I say we get there.”

Tragically, his touch moved away from Hot Rod’s node again.

He growled in frustration and reached for his spike. This time Deadlock grabbed his servo with more force, wrenching it back to where he’d previously been gripping him for balance.

“Servos off,” commanded Deadlock, surprisingly steady.

“I wouldn’t have to resort to my servos if you lived up to your reputation and just clanged me into next cycle,” Hot Rod countered. He squirmed in Deadlock’s hold—hot and bothered, but unsatisfied. The undercurrent of anticipation was driving him crazy; he just wanted an overload or two—was that too much to ask? “Or maybe last night was a fluke,” he sniped. “Big, scary Decepticon can’t get it up?”

Deadlock stilled, his vents receding to a whisper, and Hot Rod suddenly felt a little like a glitchmouse trapped in the clutches of a gyrofalcon. Him and his big mouth. Provoking Deadlock probably wasn’t the best idea he’d had this mega-cycle.

His frame disagreed, however, reading the sudden tension as suitably thrill-inducing. His spark quivered with something unidentifiable.

Thankfully, when Deadlock spoke his voice was loaded with dark amusement.

“You think you’re clever, “ he rumbled. “But don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

Well, that was slag. _Hot Rod_ barely knew what he was doing. All he knew was that the rush he’d felt at the thought of Deadlock’s ‘retribution’ had left his array tingling.

“You wanna be at the ‘big, scary Decepticon’s’ mercy?” asked Deadlock. And then his fingers were breaching Hot Rod’s valve.

Admittedly, It wasn’t difficult to open him up. Deadlock’s rough approach burned a little, but he’d had plenty of time to recalibrate last night and he was long past ready to get something _substantial_ in him.

His frame _definitely_ approved. He’d been low-key lubricating since he’d woken up and been hit by those memory files, and now it’d become far more than a trickle. He could see the way it slid down Deadlock’s servo and shone in the low light, which in turn only made his valve clench and release another small flood.

Hot Rod moaned happily. Now, _this_ was the escalation he’d been looking for.

Deadlock’s grip was tight, and he held Hot Rod firmly to his frame—granting him little room to move. That meant he could only fidget helplessly as Deadlock worked his way deeper. The sensation of the coat against his spoiler was another kind of bliss he couldn’t get away from—rubbing incessantly against overactive sensors.

Hot Rod felt sorta caged, but it felt so very _good_.

Deadlock yanked his fingers out, and he mumbled a weak protest. It turned to a gratified groan as throbbing valve met hot pelvic paneling. He ground down the best he could and was rewarded by the sensation of Deadlock’s panels sliding back, and a spike pressurizing directly into him.

Hot Rod made a strangled sound, all the nodes in his valve lighting up at once. Scrap, the stretch was _perfect_ , and their size difference ensured that Deadlock filled him to capacity as his spike extended. Hot Rod attempted to focus his optics on the mirror, and the sight of Deadlock splitting him open—lubricants dripping down from where they joined—was enough to send another wash of heat over him.

“Better?” growled Deadlock.

“Y-yeah,” he managed unsteadily. The way Deadlock was handling him was ridiculously hot, and now he could only hope he’d be generous enough to generate some _friction_.

With bated breath, Hot Rod waited for him to move. And waited. And waited some more, until he realized that Deadlock was _also_ waiting for something—a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, _captain_ ,” he gritted out, squirming impatiently.

“I dunno, I think you can be a lil’ more convincing than _that_ ,” leered Deadlock. The servo that wasn’t around his waist stroked encouragingly against his throat cabling, and Hot Rod’s valve fluttered valiantly around the spike spreading him.

“C’mon, please,” he whined. The desperation in his voice was embarrassing, but it had to count for something.

Deadlock shifted just a bit, causing the spike to put pressure on new nodes. Hot Rod moaned quietly, and let his optics shutter.

Immediately, he found his spoiler being pinched—hard. Hot Rod’s onlined his optics once more, yelping as the sensation blurred from pain to pleasure and then back again.

“Watch,” Deadlock reminded him sharply.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, and even to his audials he sounded dazed.

Primus, he hadn’t felt this tingly since that Cthunoid on R’lygh-6 with the six prehensile limbs. The mirror revealed how bright his optics were—already halfway to unseeing—but he did his best to admire the way Deadlock’s spike disappeared into the plush, oozing depths of his valve. Deadlock shifted again, and the slight change in pressure turned his lower half to molten metal.

He was seriously off his game. Last night’s interface had been familiar—energetic and rough. Hot Rod didn’t really know what to do with slow and deep.

Hot Rod’s node glowed brightly, begging for a touch that evidently wouldn’t be coming anytime soon. His spike was just as starved for attention at this point, if not more.

Deadlock’s claws scratched deliberately against his chestplate.

“Now, open up,” he said.

“ _What_? Are you seriou—”

Deadlock’s servo slipped around his spike and squeezed, and he cut off with a choked moan.

“I’m giving you what you wanted, brat. Wanted to live on the edge didn’t you?” Deadlock mocked, as he stroked Hot Rod’s chestplate in time with his spike. “The little Autobot courtin’ danger ‘cause he doesn’t know the difference between bravery and stupidity.”

Indignation and desire flared hot.

“You don’t know what you’re talking abou—”

Deadlock snarled, and Hot Rod’s valve _throbbed_. He shuddered as the grip on his spike tightened, shooting liquid heat through his array.

Okay, that wasn’t fair. Defending himself was gonna be next to impossible if Deadlock kept doing _that_.

_Do you really want him to stop though?_

The answer was a resounding no.

“Open,” commanded Deadlock again smugly.

Hardly believing himself, Hot Rod gave in to the demand. His armor slid apart to reveal a bright ice-blue spark, swollen with arousal and pulsing restlessly.

He couldn’t completely keep from trembling at seeing himself so bared and vulnerable, and it was only made worse as Deadlock’s talons skirted the edge of his sparkchamber. Lurking at the edge of his processor was the reminder that he was only a cabin boy, and ultimately, disposable. His death would provoke hostility from the Autobots sure, and he could rely on Magnus to seek justice at the very least, but…

He wasn’t irreplaceable, not yet. All Deadlock had to do to snuff him from existence was dig in.

The claws were gentle though, and despite his inner turmoil Hot Rod found himself burning hotter. Deadlock _was_ dangerous—and a part of him loved it—but he had a feeling that the captain was playing it up too, having figured out what kind of reaction it got.

Hot Rod arched and cried out as Deadlock scraped lightly against his spark-casing, lethal claws trailing perilously close to the ball of energy. He looked towards Deadlock’s face in the mirror and two hungry coals stared back at him.

“See?” asked Deadlock patronizingly. “That wasn’t so hard now, was it darlin’?”

Hot rod tried to mumble something along the lines of “frag off’, but it was largely unintelligible. The fuel in his lines had turned white-hot with pleasure, and he was shaking with the precursors of an overload.

“No need to play coy,” Deadlock continued. “We both know by now how much you like being fucked like a frag toy, hm?”

Deadlock’s brand of dirty talk skirted an edge of humiliation which left Hot Rod buzzing with slightly chagrined arousal. He was the sharp-edged seduction of a knife, and Hot Rod couldn’t help but like it.

Deadlock stroked harder along the lines of his casing—leaving behind thin scratches—and each score in the sensitive metal pierced him like an arrow to his core. Hot Rod’s valve clenched down involuntarily, and Primus, Deadlock’s lap had to be soaked.

“Even more so that its me doin’ it, huh? Dread pirate Deadlock’s got you skewered on his spike, and you wouldn’t be anywhere else for the world.”

Hot Rod’s vents hiccupped abruptly. He didn’t bother to argue. Deadlock’s spike had been prodding against his ceiling node—and every _other_ sensor—for a while now, and against all odds, each miniscule rock of his hips seemed to wedge it deeper. Primus, he was stuffed; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so _full_.

Hot Rod’s spark flared noticeably as the ecstasy coiled tight.

Deadlock’s belts continued to clink as he moved, and Hot Rod despaired at the fact that he’d probably associate the sound with interface forever now. He could just see it. Magnus strolling down the deck with all his perfectly arranged belts jingling, him popping his panels accidentally, and being assigned extra scutwork for public indecency...

Now, Deadlock brushed his thumb through Hot Rod’s corona as he spoke—igniting random spurts of pleasure which diffused from his spark to the rest of his frame.

“Where’s that smarmy attitude gone?” asked Deadlock, with a wicked grin. “Gonna just sit here and take it like a good bot? Thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

Deadlock had already torn all his bluster and boasting to shreds, but in the end sheer stubbornness won out, and Hot Rod rallied himself.

“Frag... you...” he moaned, managing to actually get the words out this time.

There was no bite to them. Hot Rod was too busy sinking strutlessly into Deadlock’s chassis, as he continued to thread fingers through his corona. Wisps of energy clung eagerly to the invaders, unaware of the threat they presented.

Deadlock chucked, and the sound vibrated through his frame and into Hot Rod’s, only adding to his charge.

“Maybe next time,” he murmured.

The implication was almost enough to make Hot Rod overload then and there. He was teetering on the brink of a spectacular climax; it wouldn’t take much more to push him over.

Deadlock ground up against his ceiling node, and he whimpered even as he watched the rolling movement in the mirror. Deadlock did it again, and while his range of motion was limited by their position he managed a gratifyingly deep grind. The glow from Hod Rod's spark laid bare the ecstasy etched into his face. It glinted off of Deadlock's sharp smile, and his struts grew even weaker. 

There was an _intensity_ to everything that Deadlock did—observable even in the midst of lazy fragging—that Hot Rod loved. More than that, he always relished knowing that someone _wanted_ him, and there was no lack of that in the way that Deadlock eyed him—like he was tempted to eat him up.

One of Deadlock’s servos tightened around his spike, even as the other one closed around his spark. The unexpected stimulation struck him to his core, and had him shouting in agonized bliss. The direct contact edged on too intense, but it was _so damn good_. Tomorrow he'd probably balk at the fact that he'd let a Decepticon handle something so fragile as the core of his being, but right now it was easy—so  <i>very</i> easy—to throw caution to the wind.

Hot Rod’s vents clattered alarmingly as they worked to suck in enough air.

“If only your captain could see you now,” remarked Deadlock casually. “He’d’ve never let you into my clutches if he knew what I had in store for a pretty little thing like you.”

That did it.

Hot Rod’s spark pulsed almost in warning, before bursting in a supernova of bliss. Deadlock revved his engine as Hot Rod’s valve clamped down, and a low groan signalled his own overload. Hot Rod’s answering moan was almost embarrassingly thin, but he was too busy riding out the electricity cascading across his frame to care.

Deadlock loosened his grip, but his hips continued to circle minutely—encouraging small aftershocks. The servo at Hot Rod’s chestplate had reverted to caressing his casing, giving his spark a chance to recover from the potent surge. After a few kliks, it withdrew, and Hot Rod took that as a sign he could close up again.

Now that the ‘facing was mostly over, leaving his spark hanging out felt way too vulnerable.

He slumped back, enjoying the feel of Deadlock still seated in him, which was little more than a comfortable stretch at this point. Admittedly, he could have done without the sticky puddle that’d formed between them.

“Ruined your outfit,” he muttered.

Deadlock’s grin was a beacon of self-satisfaction—charming, in a roguish kind of way. He waved it off.

“Worth it.”

Hot Rod felt _great_. He’d wanted one for the road, and Deadlock had fragging delivered. Now, the question was whether his legs would work well enough to get him back.

The telltale sound of engines firing interrupted that train of thought. Hot Rod tensed, any lingering contentment draining quickly from his frame. The rumble under his pedes would have been familiar and comforting, if not for the fact that this was very much not _his_ ship.

“What was that?” he demanded. Deadlock opened his mouth to answer, but Hot Rod was already barrelling ahead. “Was this a _distraction_? _Are you trying to steal me_??”

Deadlock’s face twitched briefly, the only warning Hot Rod received before he burst into uproarious laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

After a few moments, Deadlock eased up. He forcefully expelled the air in his vents—apparently making the attempt to gather himself—but guffaws still escaped his frame intermittently.

“Are you—” He stopped to snicker some more. “I’ve a hunch the word you’re looking for is kidnapping.”

“ _I know what I meant_ ,” Hot Rod bit out. He yanked himself off of Deadlock’s spike—with plans to make a break for the door while the ‘Con was still preoccupied with getting his mirth under control.

The arm that snaked quickly around Hot Rod’s waist stopped him in his tracks. He fought against the barrier, clawing futility as Deadlock pulled him flush against his chestplates again. The ease with which Deadlock held him didn’t stop Hot Rod from struggling.

“Calm down,” growled Deadlock.

Hot Rod paid him zero notice.

“Calm? How can I be _calm_ when you’re trying to haul me off like some _trinket_?

Why had he ever trusted a Decepticon? The warning was literally in the _name_.

“Think about it,” Deadlock intoned against his audial. “What does Magnus let you do anyway? Come with us and you’ll be giving orders before you know it.”

Hot rod stopped struggling momentarily to gape.

“Are you out of your processor? I can’t just _defect_!” he protested.

Deadlock shrugged.

“Can’t, or won’t?” he asked, his servo flirting with the edge of Hot Rod’s spoiler, and tracing the marks there.

Hot Rod was quiet, processor running overtime as he was swamped by implication.

Deadlock snorted.

“I’m not proposing marriage, brat,” he said. “But what’ve you got to lose? Sail with us for a while and you’ll see how real pirates live—maybe even learn a thing or two. If you hate it, I won’t stop you from hopping off at the next port and crawling back to your precious Magnus.”

Hot rod squinted suspiciously. He… was pretty sick of the endless criticism lately. If Deadlock wasn’t lying, this was a chance to get away from a life that had started to feel like a failure on his part. He deserved some appreciation didn't he? A little fun?

He wasn’t sure how much he could take Deadlock’s word at face value though—considering his apparent habit of stealing bots away for a spectacular half-decent frag, before _literally_ stealing them.

“You’ll let me go?”

“Cross my spark,” drawled Deadlock, making the motion over Hot Rod’s instead. He pressed forward, and the heat of a half-pressurized spike was obvious against his aft. “Think about it,” he cajoled. “You’ve already got firsthand experience with some of the _perks_.”

Hot rod could feel himself wavering. It’d be like… an extended leave.

“I guess I’m overdue for a vacation…” he hedged.

As if that word even existed in Magnus’ book. He was always going on about how Hot Rod had maturing to do. He never let him do anything cool, but apparently menial chores were fine; those built _character_.

Well, maybe he’d go do his growing somewhere else. Hot Rod was sick of disappointment. He’d show Magnus he could be a fraggin’ fantastic pirate.

Hot Rod cleared his vocalizer.

“I’m an Autobot,” he said firmly.

Deadlock’s grin was decidedly crooked.

“I can work with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love Pirate AU with everything that I am. And who knows, maybe there's more fic lurking in the depths of my brain. 
> 
> As usual, feel free to come say hello on tumblr @spidingsadly, eat-your-spark-out, or piquantpistachio!


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